


Cadaveris Filius

by Random_ag



Series: from the Secret Unpublished Works of Joey Drew [7]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Attempt at Fatherhood, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Murder, Sacrifice, Successful Ritual, bendy as he mercilessly and emotionlessly raises his middle finger:, joey: let me love you my child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 08:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18465679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: Joey laughs at Disney’s amazement.“The silver screen makes him look shorter, wouldn’t you say?”





	Cadaveris Filius

It’s the year 1935.

 

Walt Disney sets foot into Joey Drew Studios by his own volition to be welcomed by the main man himself.

 

They shake hands exchanging formalities, but Walt’s attention is monopolized by a figure just beside his rival’s arm - skin of polished monochrome, a dream come true in black and white.

 

Bendy, the dancing demon, replies by fixing his dense dark eyes in those of the animator as his head tilts to the side.

 

Joey laughs at Disney’s amazement.

 

“The silver screen makes him look shorter, wouldn’t you say?”

 

 

Visitors overflow the old workshop everyday.

Ever since the word spread that Joey Drew had brought his company’s most beloved character to life, dupes and skeptics have come from every corner of the country to either behold a miracle against nature or prove how much of a dirty liar Joey really is.

 

Each and every last one of them has been greeted by the darling devil’s smile.

 

The incomes keep coming, the cartoons keep selling. It’s much easier and faster to make them, much smoother and awe inspiring and cheap when the star can move on its own.

Joey appears in public more and more.

He laughs loud and enthusiastic at every turn and camera, holding the demon close as he answers questions while showing his creation off, the collar of his shirt alway high up to cover the back of his neck and hair and make him seem as if he was a scientist.

Bendy lets him carry him in his arms and looks around without speaking.

(He can’t.)

(Thank God.)

It’s not just the silver screen playing tricks on the spectators’ eyes.

Bendy  _is_  taller than he should be.

Skinnier, too.

 

But he is just on model enough for Joey, and that’s what matters.

He is just on model enough to be recognizable, and that’s what matters.

He is just on model enough to seem perfect to others, and that’s what matters.

He is just sweet and cute and gentle enough for people to love him unconditionally, without exception, and that’s what matters.

To love him to the point where they are willing to put money directly into his small, childish, white, soft gloved hands, and that’s what matters.

 

That’s what matters.

 

But Joey can’t help but feel disappointed.

Oh, he does adore him.

He is as perfect as can be.

That’s what matters.

 

There’s only such… A plastic feeling to him.

 

His movements feel static, his smile fake. His eyes are too deep and immovable.

(When Joey imagines him as more true, more real, his neck hurts terribly.)

(As if nails dug into it.)

But it’s fine.

As long as the dancing demon remains himself, it’s fine.

(As long as he doesn’t resurface.)

He does love him.

Like his own son.

That’s why he does his best in fixing this.

“Come on, now. Try like this!” he says, and on his face he makes appear the biggest, most genuine smile he can think of.

 

The little demon’s eyes don’t blink. His grin remains still.

 

“I know you can do it. Come on!” Joey incites, “Give me a little smile!”

 

The corners of the inky mouth rise to turn pie-cut irises into half moons, and yet his face still doesn’t have more joy than it did before. An emotionless apathy lingers around such a softly, friendly shaped figure.

He seems almost unhappy.

 

“Let’s try something else, then. Uh… Can you do me a sad frown?”

 

Invisible eyebrows drop gently as the smile falters. His sweet melancholy could rival a puppy’s and bring thousands in tears. But there’s still no real feeling inside of the soft face.

They attempt every emotion. Rage, disgust, fear, mischievousness, sleepyness, anything.

 

None of them feel real.

 

The only times Joey sees him close to be alive is when the staff manager holds the little devil in her arms and murmurs to him in a soft, sad voice.

Something is missing.

(It better stay that way.)

It’s not important.

 

The years pass, and pass, and pass, and pass, and pass.

Henry Stein congratulates his old pal with each major success.

Joey waits for him to come back every time he recieves his letters.

Bendy wins an award made especially for cartoons, the first of its kind.

In the picture Joey keeps on his shelf he holds the little demon in his arms, his creation rising the well-deserved trophy over their head almost excitedly.

 

They both smile.

 

Drew has never loved the bundle of ink sitting on his lap more.

 

Bendy’s toothy grin is devoid of affection.

 

It hurts.

(The nails dig in his neck.)

Not too much.

 

The years keep on flying by faster than he can fathom, and before he knows it he’s old and retired and sitting in his living room with his wheelchair by his side and a dancing demon curled on the armchair as he thinks of one final product to go out with a boom.

One darker that any of those he’s written before.

A horror story.

 

“How does that sound?”

 

Bendy doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he stretches.

 

And stretches.

 

And stretches.

 

When he stops he’s unbearably thin.

And too tall.

 

He stares at Joey.

 

He coughs.

(Pain explodes into Joey’s neck.

It’s terrible, and messy, and loud, and painful.

 

And then it’s still.

 

Still, round bicolored eyes encased in the wooden sockets of a mask.

So big, so glassy.

Looking so very far away from everything.

The head tilts unnaturally.

Strands of skin and flesh keep it attached to the rest of the body.

It lays on the floor, in a pool of blood.

It’s an awful sight.

 

Joey pulls himself away from that figure.

 

Nails.

They dig in his skin, in his flesh.

Stuck in his neck in rigor mortis.

They anchor him to that horrendous show.

 

He has to work to get them out.

 

The cuts on the back of his neck will never heal.

 

He doesn’t know yet.

 

He grabs the dead factotum and drags him away.)

Bendy stares at him.

Not smiling.

His breath is wheezy.

(He has his back turned to it for the whole time.

He doesn’t want to see it.

 

There’s a cough.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Someone chokes.

Struggles for air.

Tries to scream.

 

The noises fill everything.

Joey shakes and trembles, and doesn’t turn.

 

He gets louder.

He’s drowning.

He can’t breathe.

 

Joey tightens his fists and waits.

The noises grow, grow, grow in a hellish crescendo, unbearable, horrible, ghastly, blood-curling, horrifying-

And they stop.

 

Joey holds his breath.

 

He turns, slowly.

 

Bendy sits on the floor.

He’s taller than he should be.

Thinner, too.

His head would be tilted at an unnatural angle if he had a neck.)

He looks more alive now than he’s ever done.

 

 

That night the ink machine is turned off. The morning after a deep black stain covers the whole carpet.

 

It’s not important.

 

Joey Drew dies in a car accident.

Henry Stein goes to his funeral and leaves early.

 

His old pal’s eyes open in a dark void, facing a tall figure.

 

His face is impossible to make out, his features one with the deep blue behind it; but his eyes glow lightless as he bats them so very slowly, without a rush.

One azure, the other amber.

 

As Hell arises to swallow his murderer whole, the factotum finally lays down on the immense body of the Spirit of Violent Deaths.

 

To think, for all these years, he really believed he’d let him have what he wanted.

 

 

Just because he loved his corpse like his own child.


End file.
